


Doctor's Holiday

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his second Christmas with Holmes, Watson has expectations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor's Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Written for greenie1980, who prompted "I'm not in the festive mood at all; real life's a mess these days." This story is also somewhat tangentially related to another story of mine, [Spirit of the Season](http://archiveofourown.org/works/596769).
> 
> Beta by: Nobody. Sorry.

My first Christmas season after my return from Afghanistan was a largely cheerless affair. In straightened financial circumstances, and in still-precarious health, I had little to look forward to, and many reminders of my sorry state. Still, the season was not totally without comfort and companionship, thanks to my friend Sherlock Holmes. Although we were still new to each other, we had already formed ties of friendship, and our gifts to each other, while modest and reflecting our lean purses, were heartfelt. So too was the camaraderie we shared over Christmas breakfast, grinning and larking like schoolboys.  
  
So I had high hopes for December this year, our second together sharing rooms and Holmes’ cases. My health had greatly improved in the ensuing twelve months. I was not the man I had been, no, and never would be again, but I had regained so much strength of body and spirit that I began to have hopes of being able to return to medical practice one day. In the meanwhile, I had been far more careful of my pension than I had previously, with some assistance from Holmes. (After one embarrassing incident, he consented to keep my pocketbook locked in his desk drawer. While the touts undoubtedly missed my presence, I enjoyed a positive bank balance far more than I did their company. And Holmes’ cases went far in providing a more beneficial kind of excitement than that I had found wagering on horses and men.)  
  
So I had funds for a present for Holmes, and enough leftover besides to participate in a few seasonal amusements, as well as cab-fare to and from engagements, a few holiday sweets, and the like. Simple things, but luxuries missing from the past Christmas, and reminders of how much my life had improved in the past year.  
  
It was the morning of Christmas Eve. Holmes had stepped out to pay a call on his tobacconist – and undoubtedly to gather a bit of news. I lingered over the remnants of the most excellent breakfast Mrs. Hudson had bestowed upon us and mentally looked forward to the day ahead. The weather was cold but dry, crisp and clear enough that Holmes and I might enjoy a walk together through the park or along the Strand. Later on we had tickets for a holiday concert. And then tomorrow was Christmas, where there would be gifts, and Holmes’ company, and Mrs. Hudson’s splendid roast goose. All in all, it was as merry a prospect as –  
  
A thunderous knocking broke into my pleasant musings. Hastily I rose from the breakfast table and made my way towards the sitting-room door, expecting to see some impatient client appear in the doorway searching for Holmes. I had an apology half-ready on my lips when the door swung wide.  
  
But it was no client. It was a small, grubby boy, one of Holmes’ street urchins, with a very irate Mrs. Hudson hard upon his heels. “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson,” she apologized as the boy dodged behind a chair. “I’ve told Mr. Holmes that his…messengers…simply must wait below stairs, no matter how urgent they think the matter is.”  
  
“Not got no message for Mr. ‘Olmes,” the boy snarled. “Not ‘ere for that. ‘M ‘ere for th’ doctor.”  
  
Startled, I placed a staying hand on Mrs. Hudson’s elbow, and she ceased her pursuit. “For me? You’ve come here for me?”  
  
The boy nodded once, jerkily, then raised his chin. “Yer a doctor, ain’t’cha?”  
“I am.”  
  
“Then I want ta ‘ire ya fer some doctorin’.” My expression must have conveyed some measure of my surprise – not to say disbelief – for the fellow darted one hand inside his ragged vest. “I got money.”  
  
A single half-crown gleamed in his dirt-streaked palm. A small coin, but that represented a great deal of money to a boy like him, and I knew it. Mrs. Hudson knew it too. I could sense her curiosity getting the upper hand of her irritation. My interest was also piqued. “Very well. What ails you?”  
  
The snort of derision seemed too loud to have come from such a small boy. “Naw, not me; m’sister. She’s sick.”  
  
And what had been a moderately amusing incident suddenly took on a more poignant cast. “Well, then, young sir, let me get my bag and I will accompany you to your sister.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson looked at me, looked at the boy, and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’ll make up a packet to take with you, in case your call keeps you past luncheon.”  
  
And if that packet did not contain biscuits and treats for a hungry boy, I should be very surprised. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be lovely. Please let Holmes know that I have gone out on business, but that I expect to be back within a few hours.”  
  
“Of course, Doctor.”  
  
Within a few minutes, I had my hat, my coat, and my bag, and was ready to follow my young employer outside. We went on foot, and I learned that his name was Tom, and that he was indeed one of Holmes’ Irregulars, as he called them – but a very irregular Irregular, in that sometimes he went to school, and sometimes he worked a number of odd jobs, and sometimes he worked for Holmes. He did not say where he’d gotten his half-crown, and I carefully did not inquire.  
  
Even walking, it took less time than you might think to make our way to one of the poorer neighborhoods, where buildings in poor repair stand crowded cheek-by-jowl and are filled with all manner of tenants, brought together by poverty and necessity. Tom led me into one of these places, and through a maze of hallways and stairs until we reached a crowded, dimly-lit room, clearly occupied by many at times. At the moment, however, there were only two present besides ourselves; a haggard, extremely thin woman, and the coughing, weakly fretting young girl in her arms.  
“Tom? Who’s this?” the woman demanded, her voice hoarse.  
  
“I’m Doctor Watson,” I introduced myself hastily. “Young Tom here has hired me to examine his sister – your daughter, I presume.” Seeing the consternation on her face, I quickly added “He has already negotiated my fee, madam. May I see my patient?”  
  
Faced with a fait accompli, the mother consented to sit down and allow me to examine the child on her lap. The swollen neck already told me what the matter was, even before I saw the thick grey membrane partially blocking her throat: diphtheria, well advanced. Still, it was far from a hopeless case. The mother had been cleverly keeping the girl’s fever down with the aid of cool cloths, alternating damp cloths set on the one, extremely draughty, windowsill. I was able to further improve on this by giving the little girl a draught to further reduce the fever, and another one to help her cough up the congestion. I had recently restocked my medical bag with just such perishable supplies, in hopes that I would need them someday soon.  
  
And need them I did. No sooner had I finished treating the young girl – and distributing the packed lunch to mother and son, as a precaution to ‘keep up their strength’ as part of the girl’s recovery – than a polite tap came on the door. The mother opened it to a neighbor, who hesitantly said she’d heard there was a doctor here, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble…?  
  
Thus started one of the longest, and most exhausting, days since my return from abroad. News of my presence spread through the building like wildfire, and there was no shortage of men and women willing to seek me out, one after another, and sometimes in groups. Without exception, every single one of them offered me something for my services – a handkerchief, a bit of bread, a bag of chestnuts; an offer to brush my hat or my shoes, or shine the brass on my bag. When it was coin, it was nothing near what a doctor would normally charge his patients in London, I’m sure, but I turned no one away. How could I, a doctor, do so, when faced with so much need?  
  
I swiftly lost track of where I was in that warren of a building, and then of time. I saw factory girls and cart haulers and street sweepers, men and women, boys and girls and mere babes in arms. I treated coughs and fevers and rashes. I lanced boils, stitched up gashes, and examined infected wounds. I set a broken arm, and bound up half a dozen swollen, twisted ankles. In far too many cases, there was little I could actually do; consumption was beyond my power to help with, as were the ravages of addiction and long-term disease. I did not have the facilities for re-setting limbs that had already healed crooked or wrongly. I could, and did, draw an abscessed tooth, but only time would tell if its removal was too late to halt the infection before it could kill the patient.  
  
At some point I realized my bag was nearly empty, supplies exhausted, and that it was even darker indoors than it had been previously, and that a man was plucking at my coat-sleeve. He was clean-shaven, and rather better-dressed than many of those I had treated over the course of – who knew how many hours it had been? But he clearly wanted my attention, and so I gave it to him. “Yes? Is there something I can help you with? I’ve just about finished here.” I looked down at the child – she couldn’t have been more than eight, and looked half the size she should have been – whose hand had been mangled in her work as a picker in one of the weaving factories. “Keep it clean as you can, and try to rest it if possible. The first three fingers should be all right if you keep infection out.” There had been nothing to do for the pinkie finger except neatly trim the stump.  
  
“It’s more that I’m here to help you,” the man said. His accent, too, was less pronounced than most I’d heard that day. “I doubt you know, but it’s gone past midnight, Doctor, and I hear that you’ve been here ‘elping folks since afore noon. I’m here to see that you get home safe.”  
  
Past midnight? It seemed impossible, and yet I suddenly felt how exhausted I was, how light-headed from effort and hunger and thirst. “Oh,” I said faintly. “I had no idea of the time. That’s very kind of you.”  
  
Something about that statement must have amused the man, for he laughed heartily. “As you say, Doctor Watson; I’d not dare argue th’ point with a learned gent such as yourself, not today nohow. But Dan will see you back to your home, none better. You’ve my word on that, no worries.”  
  
And so he did, with a steadying arm under my elbow as we climbed down the innumerable, rickety stairs, and a cab waiting at the curb. He jumped in with me, asked the address before giving a curt order to the cab-man, and chatted amiably as we rode through the largely deserted streets. He was most curious about how I’d come to be there.  
“Tom, was it? With a young sister?” he mused. “That sounds like Bess’ boy. A sharp young lad, is Tom, with an eye to the main chance, that’s clear enough. Clever, that was, to come to you, and kind too. As you were, to humor him.”  
  
“No doctor should turn away a patient in need,” I murmured, half-embarrassed, half too tired to mind exactly what I was saying.  
  
Dan laughed again, but not so merrily. “Perhaps they shouldn’t, Doctor, but I dare say you’d be surprised. But enough of such gloomy thoughts; it’s Christmas, and here we are at your door, just like I promised.”  
  
There indeed was 221, and I could see our sitting-room fully aglow. Dan helped me out, handed me my bag, and tipped his hat respectfully before springing back into the cab. “Happy Christmas, Doctor Watson, and God bless you,” he called as the cab pulled away at a smart clip, just as the front door flew open. He was too far away for me to return his good wishes, but responded to my wave with a grin and a salute of his own before the cab turned the corner and was lost to view.  
  
A strong hand seized my elbow, and I was half pulled around by an anxious-looking Holmes. “Watson! Are you all right?”  
  
I blinked. “I’m fine.” A thought occurred to me, and I felt my face fall. “Oh, Holmes, the concert! I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Hang the concert,” my friend snapped, his eyes flitting over every inch of me. His voice gentled almost immediately. “There will be others, and in the meantime, you’ve clearly been out having adventures of your own. Let’s go inside, and you can tell me all about them over the late supper Mrs. Hudson set aside. You look as if you need it.”  
  
Holmes was right, as always. The good food – and the hot brandy-and-water Holmes insisted I drink with it – went a long way to restoring me. I told Holmes of my day of treating patients between mouthfuls. He listened patiently, asking only a few questions as I traced the pattern of events, from Tom’s arrival to Dan’s escort home.  
  
In the end, Holmes shook his head. “You must have seemed a Christmas miracle to them, my dear fellow, doctoring your way through such a place. Or so I must surmise.”  
  
“How so?” I asked, stifling a yawn.  
  
My friend gave me a wry smile. “Because from the glimpse I got of him, the ‘Dan’ who escorted you home is the leader of the gang that holds sway over that neighborhood – and is one of the more ruthless cut-throats in London. Or so I would have said before tonight.” His smile grew fond. “Evidently your goodness knows no bounds, Watson, and in the spirit of the season, there really _is_ good will towards all men, even from one such as that.”


End file.
